


Requiem

by scorpionmother



Category: Penny Dreadful (TV)
Genre: Death, F/M, Grief/Mourning, Regret, Written from Ethan's POV
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-14
Updated: 2017-08-14
Packaged: 2018-12-15 07:45:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,075
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11801589
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scorpionmother/pseuds/scorpionmother
Summary: Written from Ethan's POV- his thoughts immediately following Vanessa's death at the end of Season 3





	Requiem

As the echo of her salvation died in the chamber of light, only the need to deliver her the proper rites stayed his hand from turning the weapon upon himself. For him there was no joy in the victory, no triumph at the final defeat of evil, only the heartrending knowledge that she was gone from the earth at his hand, that he had delivered the end that she had begged for. That despite the bile that had risen in his craw at her request, there was also the acceptance that he had no right to deny her anything. He’d lost that right on a winter’s morning, his mouth tainted copper with the blood of their friend when he’d walked away from her need. Even the relief of her final words offered no comfort to him. They were only the confirmation of finality – of the utter loss that he would have to live with second after second, minute after minute, hour after hour over days, months and years until he too was allowed the blessed relief of eternal slumber. He could only curse his destiny as deep inside the wolf of God bayed in despair at a moon stained crimson with her blood, at the demise of its beloved scorpion and the fact that the world would continue to turn unknowing and uncaring of the sacrifice made.

Without the solidity of her soul her body felt insubstantial in his arms as he bent to finally hold her against him. Dressed in shades of moonlight, for a moment he could almost see her as the bride; his bride that in the secret parts of his heart he’d imagined her as. But she belonged to no earthly suitor now, her body death’s, her soul God’s. Silently he carried her through the streets of the city awakening in confused awe as the putrid fog that had cloaked it was obliterated by the return of the sun. She seemed to weigh nothing and he knew he could carry her until the end of days and that deep inside his soul he would, carry her forever, clinging to the idea of her like a doomed man, white fingered at the broken mast of a sinking vessel. His compass forever lost, broken - spinning chaotically into oblivion. Centreless and alone.

He cared nothing for the others, whether they followed him or not, about their grief, about their loss. Whether they blamed him, hated him or ultimately blessed him for the destruction he’d exacted upon her was immaterial. He could, would never forgive himself for taking her life even though it had been done with a kiss, had been exacted with love and at her bequest. And love it was, total and utter, pure and unsullied never to be consummated, the love of a supplicant before an idol. Not that he hadn’t wanted her, ached for her. She’d haunted his dreams waking and sleeping since the first time he’d laid eyes upon her. The feel of her hand against his skin a brand, the scent of her hair a scar and the one singular taste of her mouth in the rain the sweetest poison, tainting him forever, ruining him for any other, condemning him to a life of celibacy; a life alone. For none could take her place, could stand even in her shadow. He’d been held by a goddess and his beating heart would lay with her still one, for eternity.

He alone would prepare her for the grave. The hands that had taken her life would tend to her in death. Would reverently remove the bloodied gown from her form. Would wash the stink of Dracula and his charnel house from her skin. Would dress her in the simple clothes she’d worn with him at the moor when he’d held her, happy and dancing. Would brush her hair until it shone raven wing dark. Would place her prayer book between her cold hands. Only then would he allow the others to enter, to gather to pay their final respects to the woman who had touched their conjoined lives so inexorably. Victor, his sadness would be etched onto his face the grey of his eyes bleak, his very soul crushed, cursing the futility of the one sickness that despite study and skill, was incurable. Catriona’s deep regret for an embryonic friendship that should have sweetened, would be tangible as she took her last sombre look. Dr Seward’s professional demeanour somehow shattered by her failure to save her, by the loss of someone of such power, so broken and yet in death made finally whole with purpose. 

And then Sir Malcolm. It would be his grief that he feared, that he knew could finally undo him, reduce him to nothing more than a keening animal, a sobbing mass on a cold, wooden floor, and it was against that he knew he needed to guard. He could not afford to show his true feelings, his true nature even to the only people that could vaguely comprehend the utter desolation that hung like shroud around his form, this family created by need and now shattered by loss. His own anguish would be solitary and need to be played out in private. It would be an event of claws and teeth, of wild, unfettered, unchained carnage, a gore splattered evisceration of despair and grief that would do nothing to ease the tortured agony of his body and soul. But that would only come once he’d seen her into the ground. 

His regret that it would not be him that would create from the work of his own hands and the sweat from his own brow, her final resting place lay heavy on him. The urge to run now away from the uncaring city to her moor, to excavate a grave and commit her to the wild ground was a need he had to ignore. Her soul required, deserved that her body too lay in consecrated ground, was offered every Catholic rite and went to her final resting place from where people had loved her. And so, he would carry her home to finally entombed her body in an ebony coffin marked with the symbol of another’s sacrifice. 

From here he knew or understood nothing only the fact that finally those words he had written, what seemed now to have been another lifetime ago were true – he was made for the darkness and would forever walk alone.

**Author's Note:**

> I've had this 'on the pins' for so long but didn't have the heart to finish it as I think this is my last PD story, but I felt I owed it an airing so here it is, and I hope people enjoy it. I have so loved writing and sharing with all you lovely Dreadful's my vision of this wonderful show and thank you for all the comments and kudos on my other offerings.


End file.
